


Fading Away

by theoreticallychaotic



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Character Death, M/M, Major Illness, Tissues will be needed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 23:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1011287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoreticallychaotic/pseuds/theoreticallychaotic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'He stroked Jean’s hair as he continued to speak; he could hear his voice clotting with emotion. “Do not dare to leave me while I’m gone, Jean.” he cautioned.'</p>
<p>For the kinkmeme prompt asking for something based on Philip Quast's 'He Fades Away'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fading Away

Javert shivered; the iciness crept down his spine, pimpled his skin and pulled the fine hairs there taut. He wasn’t sure why; it never really got cold in this part of the world, not like Toulon. He dunked the pillowcase back into the water, which was cool against his sweat-sheened skin. It didn’t seem to matter how much he rubbed and grated the fabric, those rusty mottles of blood were fixed, like a bad memory, refusing to fade so easily. He scrubbed more vigorously until he had agitated the crude soap into a full froth; a bubbling cloud that screened the thin piece of soiled fabric. His hands stilled, suspended in the water as he glanced up, catching a distant hill, red banded with blue and stripped rough, in his peripheral vision. A fresh breeze weaved through the trees and lapped at their leaves; the hush of it provided a gentle undercurrent to thick, hacking cough that reached his ears. Javert refused his lamentable sigh to be aired. He merely patted his hands dry against his trousers, wrung out the pillowcase with a sure twist of his wrists and headed for his cabin, billowing up dusty puffs of sand as he walked. The cough continued to wrack the peaceful air as he slung the pillowcase over the rickety wooden balustrade of the porch. He stepped inside, noticing how the air was as parched as the ground he had just walked across. The bed, lined along the window, creaked with each shuddering cough. 

“I’m here, Jean.”

It was a futile comfort; he knew, could hear, how Jean’s throat was clagged with blood, thick and slimy. He could see how despite each wrack, each jerk, Jean remained flopped against the dune of pillows. Javert picked up a damp cloth from the rough-grained table next to the bed then, pulling up a chair, he stationed himself next to the bed and dabbed at Jean’s blood-stained lips. Beneath the red, they were grey and flaked transparent; a hideous compliment to perky yellow of his skin. He swished the cloth through a bowl of water he kept in readiness on the nightstand, squeezed it, then stroked it against the scarlet congealed into the man’s beard. How long he did that for he didn’t know, just sitting there dabbing and stroking and listening to the mechanical wheeze of Jean’s chest and the buzz of a curious fly. His thoughts drifted at some point; a musing that began with Jean’s lips at a time when they were full and vibrant and when his beard was soft and neat. It had been a hot night and late when Jean dragged him deep into the mine and his lips and hands had claimed Javert so thoroughly whilst he was pressed hard and tight against the jagged wall – ‘stuck between a rock and a hard place’ was what Jean had smirked lowly to him in his ear afterwards. 

It was a rap at the door that disturbed him, that finally urged him from his seat. 

“His final pay cheque.” Gisquet, sparing pleasantries, held out a crumpled envelope between two stumpy fingers to Javert. “How is he?”

There was a solitary shake of Javert’s head. 

“Ah.” Gisquet muttered, nearly silent. “I’m afraid we cannot spare you from duty this evening, Javert.” There was a note of regretful compassion to his voice. “It has been three days already and we did not think he would fight this long.”

“I understand, Sir.” Javert nodded curtly and dipped his head, turning the envelope over in his hands as he did so. The scuffed floor kaleidoscoped under a mist of tears; he blinked hard and forced them to dissipate before he looked back at his superior. “I will be there, Sir.”

Gisquet smiled, grim and thin, before turning to take his leave. “Of course, should anything change...” he tipped his head in the direction of the interior of the cabin.

Javert’s stomach twisted at Gisquet’s unsaid words, he wondered if he had paled too. “Thank you, Sir.” His voice was thick.

When he stepped back inside, and after casting another mournful check over his charge, Javert walked to the far side of the room and stood at his desk. It was sparse save for a clean dipping pen, near full bottle of ink and a small collection of carved objects gathered in the corner. He tugged open the drawer and carefully placed the envelope with the others he had amassed. 

“What use!” he scoffed derisively and wedged the drawer shut again. 

He braced his palms over the surface of the desk, bearing much of the weight of his upper body, and closed his eyes. He had to be strong he told himself; shouting at the heavens and railing about those useless cheques would do little more than drain his energies. He allowed his lip to quiver for the briefest of moments though, when he told himself that nothing could be altered that would save Jean. He breathed deep and slowly opened his eyes, the first thing they alighted on were the curves of bone and ivory cluttered in the corner of his desk. The corners of his lips turned upwards melancholically as he reached for one. He cupped it in the palm of his left hand and traced over the lines and notches scored deep into it. 

It was only a day into their journey on that miserable creaky ship. The sea roiled and their stomachs with it, except for 24601 of course. He was by far the strongest of the men and the only one of the felons who was not spending the time hunched over a chamberpot or the side of the ship. He couldn’t fully recall the sequence of events now, but it ended with Javert cornering the man in the dark depths of the ship’s belly. 24601 had been near pinned against the wall whilst Javert confronted him at arm’s length and the tip of his nightstick pressing on the soft flesh of the convict’s throat. That memory held vivid and even now he could recall how his ragged clothes were darkened with sweat and tar, his hair wild and beard unkempt, and the salty smell of the air.

“You think I wouldn’t do it?” 24601 sneered at him like a beast. “I think you’d enjoy it – my dragging you, bending you over the gunwale, fucking you like a sailor’s whore!” 24601’s eyes brightened dangerously, like those of a hungry tiger. “My whore.” 

Javert now refused to muse further on his actions after that. He picked up another of the ornaments and caressed his fingers over that too. It was a few days after that bid for freedom that 24601 had presented Javert with an item much like the one he held now. It had started with Cochepaille, Javert learnt later, and some bone and ivory he had smuggled aboard. Whether it was through force or more honest means, 24601 had possessed some of this commodity as well as a small vial of ink and, with a rusty nail, had set about his task. Javert only learnt of 24601’s endeavour when he was next on shift: the bone had been eroded into the most virile of shapes etched with an image that would have the Marquis de Sade envious. Even now Javert could hear 24601’s savage laugh as he was handed the gift. 

The one he held and treasured now, as he listened to Jean’s laboured breaths, couldn’t be more contrary: it was smooth and round, like a pebble, ingrained with a blazing sun, mythical beasts of the Zodiac and mapped with constellations, all inked in the colour of the night sky. It was during one winter that Jean had learnt of Javert’s fascination with stars then, a year and a half prior, Jean had given him this, at Christmas; the same Christmas, with its smothering heat, that Jean and Javert found themselves beneath those stars and had loved each other properly for the first time. The coughing had started again; untrained in medicine though he was, Javert was still able to discern that those expulsions of air and blood and phlegm had intensified. He placed the novelty back in its resting place and returned to Jean. He was spluttering and trembling forcefully. One of Javert’s hands reached for the cloth again whilst his other took hold of Jean’s and he ran a thumb over the bony ridge of the knuckles. He pressed the washcloth to Jean’s mouth after each exertive bout until they gradually calmed to strenuous intakes of breath and he closed his near lifeless eyes once more. The clock struck, loud and resonant and he knew he’d have to leave for his shift soon. He opened the drawer of the nightstand, pulled out a pristine cloth and laid it neatly folded on the nightstand. Next he left the room for a short moment and returned with a pitcher of fresh water and a chipped porcelain mug. 

Javert steeled his voice as much as he could whilst he poured the water into the mug: “You’re the strongest man I know, Jean.” Javert carefully poised himself on the edge of the bed, slipped an arm beneath Jean’s limp shoulders and coaxed the groaning man. “Come now, sit up.” He tilted the cup to Jean’s lips. “Drink.” he coaxed, his voice soft. 

Jean didn’t drink, he could barely swallow, but Javert had managed to guide some liquid to moisten his mouth. After he set the almost full cup aside Javert clasped Jean’s clammy hand between both of his own.

“I’m needed on duty, Jean.” Javert held his gaze on Jean’s gaunt face, which was mostly inexpressive with sleep and the occasional twist of pain. “I shall not leave you longer than I have to.” It was only when Javert made to lift a hand and straightened his stiff and aching fingers out that he realised how tight he had gripped Jean’s hand. He stroked Jean’s hair as he continued to speak; he could hear his voice clotting with emotion. “Do not dare to leave me while I’m gone, Jean.” he cautioned.

Javert knew he could do little. He lit a half-burnt candle, tucked the lightweight blanket up to Jean’s waist, touched a kiss to his pallid cheek and left him with the assurance of returning soon. The air had chilled greatly with the onset of darkness; there was no cloud to preserve the warmth of the day. Javert walked briskly to his post, hoping his speedier actions would get him back to Jean all the sooner, and on arriving he almost collided with Maxime, a younger guard with the blondest of hair and a wicked hand with a nightstick, who was marching Chenildieu back to his cell. 

“Javert, we didn’t expect you tonight.” 

The keys jingled as Maxime unlocked the cell at the start of the block.

“M. Gisquet requested my return.”

“And how is...?”

Javert was quiet for a moment before he answered: “He’s asleep, for now.”

“Come looking for someone else to fuck next, Javert?” Chenildieu’s callous voice and horrid laughter broke into their conversation. “Or do cold corpses get you hard too?”

Maxime had previous experience of how Javert wasn’t one to be crossed, how a prisoner would not quickly forget how they had angered him, but at that moment he caught the glacial, murderous glare that flared in Javert’s frost-blue eyes, the huge strides, the violent grasp towards Chenildieu’s throat and feared a consequence that he had not thought Javert capable of. 

Javert grabbed the prisoner, one hand around the folded flesh of the convict’s neck and the other braced on his shoulder, a thumb rested on that soft dip. All he would have to do is push down hard, hold him tight against the wall, count those breaths as they shallow and halt. 

“God damn you!” Javert snarled; his eyes were wide and he huffed harshly as he shoved Chenildieu to the floor of the cell and yanked the door close with a slam. “God, what have I become?” his words were more to himself that Maxime as he hurried outside. 

Javert wasn’t surprised when Maxime came to his side a short time later. Javert rested against the wall of the cell block; he taunted a blue fibrous rock with his foot, rolled it back and forth upon the sandy ground for several lengthy minutes before he glanced up at the stars sparkling coldly above. 

“I nearly killed him.”

Maxime shook his head, disturbing his blonde locks: “Your actions were nowhere near. Besides, he provoked you.”

“I considered it, thought about it! That’s near enough. Nor is provocation an excuse for what I did!” Javert barked. He saw Maxime flinch, “Apologies. My anger is not with you.”

“You stopped yourself.” Maxime pointed out. “No person intent on killing someone does that.”

Javert gave a nod of his head in vague agreement but otherwise remained silent. 

“I could still find another officer to cover for you if you prefer to be with Jean-”

“Thank you, Maxime, but I will be fine.” Javert adjusted his jacket, pointlessly. “I must do as M. Gisquet has asked.”

The cell block was noiseless when Javert returned. Though he hoped it stayed that way for the duration of his shift, he hated how the silence and stretch of time allowed him to ruminate on Jean and what he’d dare to find on returning to him: Would Jean still be asleep? Or would it be that sleep that Javert knew was coming for him, the one from which he would never wake? Was Jean even aware Javert was not with him right now? If he was, would Jean try to move, try to find him, fall, hurt himself, urge himself ever closer to the darkness? God, he had to stop these thoughts, but how when the one person who would soothe him was the very person he was worried to distraction about. Javert stood, paced, sat, counted the bars of the cells, the windows, the stars, paced again but still his thoughts flowed; a raging river he could not dam, and it was only after several long hours and that much awaited dash back to his cabin did that uncontrollable stream finally cease to flow. 

That Jean’s breathing had shallowed further was the first thing Javert noticed, so much so he took up Jean’s hand and pressed two searching fingers to the jut of his wrist in search of the telling beat beneath his skin. He sighed, relieved at the faint hint of it. 

“You waited.” He whispered taking up the pitcher and, doing as he had earlier, poured the water into a glass and dampened Jean’s lips.

He resumed the routine he had evolved since he had Jean brought to his quarters. He put on his nightshirt and gown, lit a new candle and walked to the bookshelf. Staring at those hard, clothbound covers he mused on how he had hated reading before Jean; he didn’t like it much more now, but Jean had encouraged him enough to appreciate the words and story they weaved. He could hear the wheeze cutting into his musing, to which Jean’s breathing sang and the gurgle of blood deep in his lungs that punctuated through it. Javert dismissed the books of their task for tonight and returned the chair beside the bed.

He clutched Jean’s hand once again; the skin was cooler, paler, not like it was when he first took his hand on arriving back. 

“You can’t leave me yet, Jean!” A panic, dark and heated, started to claw high and condense in Javert’s throat. 

The wheezing had increased too; increased as each breath drew in less and less. 

“Don’t, Jean!”

A breath in.

A second, two, three. 

“Jean!” 

Four. 

A breath out.

A sigh. 

Javert lifted Jean’s hand to his mouth now and whispered against it. “ _Salve, Regina,_ ” 

Another shallow intake.

“ _Mater misericordiæ,_ ” Where did those words come from? “Breath out, Jean!” 

A harsh fracture through his voice. 

“ _Vita, dulcedo_ – I won’t let you leave, Jean! - _et spes nostra,_ ” 

A small breath out. 

“ _Salve. Ad te clamamus_ –- I love you! – _exsules filii Hevæ_ -” 

A breath in, there had been no breath in! 

Javert kissed Jean’s hand, which bled blue and colder still as Jean slowly faded away.

**Author's Note:**

> A note on the story's background: As mentioned, it's inspired by the song 'He Fades Away', sung from the point of view of someone caring for and watching over a Wittenoom miner who's dying from an asbestos-related illness. My knowledge of such illnesses is limited but I have tried to be accurate in the way I have portrayed some of the symptoms here. Wittenoom is a real place in Western Australia, albeit now a ghost-town owing to how asbestos-riddled it is. The blue, fibrous rock Javert kicks around mid way through the story is Crocidolite/Blue Asbestos, which is the type of rock that was mined at Wittenoom. 
> 
> A note on the Latin: It's taken from the prayer 'Hail Holy Queen'. I wanted Javert to be praying/saying something religious but didn't want to go down the obvious route of the Last Rites. I think it would be more plausible for Javert to recite something he's heard again and again in a church but may not fully understand what it really says/means. Also, I think he's likely to say the first prayer that comes to mind. 
> 
> There is also another Quast link with what I've chosen here: Quast recites the English translation of the prayer in 'Brides of Christ'. The Latin version, as used here, also features in Evita during 'Oh What a Circus' and at the end of the musical, in which Philip played Peron.


End file.
